Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1887-11-06

abide No, on second Thoughts, Will
not take it back"
/ held the little ornament in my hand
and examined il. Bridget dipped her
pen in the ink and bent forward, but
did NOT write. Five minutes aiterward
she was still sitting in the same attitude
Whereabouts is Clare Court she
said presently. 81 must take something
to that child. The necessity to feel
grateful is always oppressive to me-one
mnst be very amiable to accept gifts and
not desire 10 pay for them. What would
a child of three play with ?-one can get
woolly squeaking things-squeaking
beasts on wheels. | will get something
like that and take him" 49,,
"You will brave the measles, them ~
| said smiling. :,
Prom an unamiable motive" said
Bridget, caustically.
Whether or not Bridget carried ont
her intention and purchased the
squeaking beast" and sought Clare
Court did not hear. The weeks went
by uneventfully. Bridget found use
for her stone obelisk, and stood 1t on
loose papers rs weight; but she dld not
speak of Verify and his gift lgain.
The winter seemed to come upon us
early that year; the winter distress
seemed greater than usual. As we set
ont for school in the mornings we met
men who looked cold and pinched, and
who glanced about them anxiously. AS
we came home in the afternoons there
were solitary figures standing about the
corners Of the strcets-strong men with
their bands in their pockets and their
faces unexpectant, patient, or logged.
Bridget was more silent than | had ever
known her she had nothing to say as
we walked together. Yet the gray skies
and the keen air seemed tonic to her
energies she often left me 10y the fire
in our sltting-room and went ont again.
One afternoon, as Bridget was writing
ct the table and ] was reading, some
small children playing in the street
stopped outside orr window, and small
despotic elder sister seated q younger
brother on our window-sill and held him
/ there for minute while she made her
wishes known. in an eloquent, shrill-
voiced way, to her companions. The
small boy turned and looked, una
Dashed, INTO the bright. firc-lit room, ut
Bridget and me. our appie-green table
cloth and gilt chandelier aud number
/ less antimacsssars. The brown eyes and
/ the big. contemplative gaze seemed al
mos, familiar laughed as / looked MP.
He IS Ike that other child, J sad
carelessly, scarcely addressing Bridget.
"No, not much,' replied Bridget
promptly.
- wonder what has become Of that
child p | said.
Bridget sat upright in her chair
and turned the leaves OF her die
tionary. She seemed insure whether
the word she sought might be found
among the as or rs; for once Bridget
thoughts were distracted thought she
was trying to remember something.
- meant the child You saved that
dav." 1 said. "You remember him ?
Do Won remember t6e father-the man
Verify? L wonder what has become of
Verify ~
"He is ont Of work. said Bridget,
slowly and quietly. She gave up her
search in the dictionary and went 20 the
window, as far away as possible from
where | was sitting. She stood looking
out. and the children on the pavement
gathered up their babies and moved
away to a more private spot.
"What makes you think he is out OF
work ?" l asked.
- know it, replied Bridget con-
cisely. Tor a moment or two longer
she stood looking ont at the deserted
street: then she came back to her seat.
81 have seen him." she explained, and
she put her elbow on the table and
rested her chin on her hand, and sat
looking at me for a minute with an
almost aggressiyely matter-of-fact, une-
motional glance.
HAS he been out Of work long?" 1
inquired.
"a good many weeks" replied
We we're both silent for awhile.
Bridget still sat looking at me with a
grave AMI impassiye glance.
alt is very hard, l said at last, sigh
ing. -,
Eyes. We do not really care, said
Bridget. 1--WE say it is hard. 1t does
not touch US. II touches you perhaps.
But mo, it does not touch me at all.
There are twenty thousand men out OF
work in London-twcnty thousand men
with too little bread - eat-and l still
desire unnecessary sugar in my coffee
and tea. am not imaginative. l eau
not feel other peoples cold and hunger
1t is the misery of other people; 1t
does not touch me"
Her voice shook a little. She drew
her chair nearer the table. She checked
what might have been sigh, ana bent
over her books again. All the rest Of
that afternoon she was very GiIigent
When asked anotser question she al
swercd briefly in an distracted tone,
and wrote criticism in the margin OF
an exerciss-book while she spoke.
1t was week or t%o after that, anc
early in December. Bridget had beeI
; ont, and had come home tired and little
inclined to talk. She cook mp Z schoo
history. and SAT- beside the FIRE reading
and the evening passed silently. Once
or twice, elanciug up, found her look
ing away from the book she held. ! dc
not think She knew how her face was
betraying her. 1t was sad with mos
} tragic sadness. She was broodiag ovel
some more than common sorrow. The
sorrow was not wholly Der own, for hcl
ewes had sostened with look of exceed
ing, yearning pity. And the sorrow
was OF that sort that numbs the courage
r for her face expressed hopelessness-
conscious hopelossness.
1t was late in the evening, and The
house and street were quiet. \ clocl
was ticking in the kitchen, and its voice
seemed loud in the silence. When any
one passed our window We heard tn,
steps advance and die away. suddenly
as a step approached Bridget sat up
! right, with startled look, and listened.
She pat down the book she held anl
,, rose hastily. Her face, which had beer
pale, had suddenly grown crimson. The
door-bell rang Aminute later our land
lady ushered in a visitor-a tall, rough
addressed man, whose face seemed (
know. At second glance remem-
. Il l..